Hitman Damnation

FIVE



Roget paid me my fee. One perk was that Roget offered me a ride on his private plane to Rio de Janeiro. I thought that might be a nice place to visit and hunt for work, so I took him up on it. It was also convenient, because I could bring my briefcase on board with me. It contained my handguns. They’re AMT Hardballers, but I call them Silverballers because of the pearl handles.

It was a Lear business-class jet, so the cabin was small. It held twelve passengers, but I was the only one aboard. There was no flight attendant. I never saw the pilot, but a voice over the intercom told me to fasten my seat belt and all that. We took off from Montego Bay in the afternoon and I was on my way.

The Jamaican news was full of Corado’s death. Emilio Fernandez was taken in for questioning. The States sent an FBI agent down to interrogate him as well. Corado was wanted in a few countries. I guess I saved a lot of taxpayers’ money, since the guy would never have a trial. Corado was scum, and I had no problem extracting him from the planet. I wasn’t sure exactly what Roget’s beef with Corado was. Maybe Corado was muscling in on Roget’s territory. Roget didn’t seem to be the most up-and-up kind of guy either. For all I knew, his business was human trafficking.

Not that I cared.

As the plane left Caribbean airspace, I reclined the seat and tried to relax. I was hoping to get some sleep on the flight, but I felt a twinge of anxiety. I had taken my pill earlier, but I was starting to wonder if I needed to take two at a time. They said people gain a tolerance for the stuff. So far, that hadn’t happened to me. I guess that was because I’m different.

We weren’t in the air ten minutes when we hit turbulence. It was bad too. I looked out the window and saw that a storm had appeared out of nowhere. The clouds were dark and threatening. Lightning flashed across the panorama, and the plane lurched violently. It felt like the jet had gone through a cloud of plutonium. I expected the pilot to make an announcement or something, but there was dead silence from the cockpit.

I waited in my seat a few more minutes, but I usually could tell when an airplane was having trouble. We were losing altitude. There was nothing below but ocean. I didn’t like the looks of it, so I unbuckled my seat belt and moved up the aisle to the cockpit door, which was closed. I banged on it and shouted, “Hey, in there! What’s going on?” Again, dead silence. I banged again.

I went back to my seat to fetch one of the Silverballers. I opened the briefcase, grabbed the handgun, inserted one of the seven-round magazines, a .45 ACP, and returned to the door. One blast was all it took.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled it open. There wasn’t anyone in the cockpit. No pilot. No copilot. Nobody.

I’ve had a little experience with planes, so I jumped into the pilot’s seat. If I just leveled the aircraft and kept it from crashing into the sea, I’d be happy. But the control column didn’t respond. It was stuck. That’s when I noticed the black box with the red lights on it. It was attached beneath the dash. The plane was controlled by remote.

The Silverballer coughed again. The box shattered to pieces, and at the same time the plane jolted hard. Looking out the window, I saw that one of the engines was out. Great. Flying on one engine in a storm. The aircraft wouldn’t respond when I moved the control column.

Time for plan B.

I got up and searched the cockpit for a parachute. If the plane was going down, I wanted to beat it to the water and, hopefully, with a softer landing. But of course there wasn’t a parachute in sight, so it was back to the cabin. I searched the overhead compartments. They were all empty. I looked under the seats. At least there was a flotation device. I grabbed it and put it around my chest. I knew I had to blow into the tubes to inflate it. That could wait.

I even did a quick reconnaissance of the lavatory. Nada.

No more ideas.

The plane veered a little but was still losing altitude. There was nothing else to do but buckle myself into my seat. I tried to recall where was the best place to be when a plane crashes. But the Lear was so small, I didn’t think it would make any difference where I was.

I was going to die.

Oddly, I wasn’t afraid. I was prepared to accept my fate. My whole life, I had expected Death to come calling. The way things had been going the last year, I welcomed his visit.

I closed my eyes. A wave of peace flowed through my body.

But then—that ball of angst bubbled up in my chest. That could mean only one thing, so I opened my eyes and looked out the window.

Rain battered the Plexiglas. In the black clouds—a face. No, not a face. The shape of a face. A familiar one.

Death. The same shadowy faceless figure from my dreams. Watching the plane go down.

I braced myself for the impact. Would the plane survive hitting the water? Would it float or sink?

I was going to die. The last time that thought crossed my mind, I was in Nepal. In the Himalayas.

A year ago …





SIX



Agent 47 tapped his earpiece.

“Diana? Are you there?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, the line had been cut off. Why would she leave him like that? She gives him some vague instruction, tells him that two hostiles are making their way toward his position on the mountain, and then disappears? Perhaps it was a technical malfunction. Surely she would be back online in a moment.

In the meantime, 47 removed the boomer from his backpack. It was a device that resembled a twelve-inch flashlight, its exterior made of metal. Inside, however, was a complex transmitter that emitted powerful sonic waves. Human ears couldn’t hear them, but they would drive any dog within miles completely mad. More important, the sound waves would upset natural faults within rock, ice, or snow. Placed vertically in the snow on the Kangchenjunga cliff where the hitman now crouched, it could cause an avalanche after a minute or two. The trick was to plant it on the precise geological flaw. Only Diana’s computer could calculate the right spot.

He had made it to the snow-packed cliff she had indicated, but he had no clue where to stick the boomer. By now the two Chinese bodyguards would be closer. How fast could they move down the face of the mountain? 47 was no expert at mountain climbing, but he could travel ten feet per five minutes. If they were that good or better, it would take them a little while to reach him.

47 dared to lie facedown on the cliff and inch to the edge. It was a long way down, but he could see Nam Vo and his party moving along. They were in the perfect position. He needed to set off the boomer now.

Where was Diana?

The assassin rolled to his side so that he could look up. The sun was terribly bright, but the Uvex pocket goggles blocked out the worst of the dangerous rays. Unfortunately, the sun was almost straight above him. The glare prevented him from seeing the two guards that were headed his way.

47 carefully wormed back to the cliff face so they wouldn’t see him. Once again he tapped the earpiece. It was still working, because he heard static. No, something was definitely wrong on Diana’s end.

It had been a perilous mission. The Chinese general known as Nam Vo had come to Nepal so that he would be in close proximity to Tibet. Nam Vo got his kicks by sending a small force of military sadists across the border to terrorize Tibetan villages. They raped women, tortured men, and left children starving. Whether or not Vo was under orders from the Chinese government, or if he had simply gone rogue, was unclear. All 47 knew was that a “concerned party” had hired the Agency to assassinate the monster. Perhaps it was a Tibetan resistance group. Maybe it was a wealthy activist in America or Britain. Perhaps it was the Dalai Lama himself. Unlikely, but 47 didn’t really care. Sometimes the Agency told him who the customer was and sometimes they didn’t. More often the client was anonymous.

Formulating the plan to assassinate Nam Vo on Kangchenjunga was another dangerous component. Mountain climbing was hazardous enough when it was done for sport. Throw in deadly weapons and a scheme to kill people, and it was madness. Agent 47 wanted to figure out another way to get to Vo, but Diana had insisted the man was unreachable. She had found out he liked to climb, so she kept her eyes and ears to the ground in Nepal and eventually learned about the expedition up the “Kanch,” as locals called the peak.

Usually she left the method and means to Agent 47, but this time she worked out the plot. 47 would get a head start up the mountain so that he could be in position to drop tons of snow and ice on the man. Making Nam Vo’s death appear to be an accident—better yet, a natural disaster—was the key to the mission’s success. Corrupt or not, the Chinese government wouldn’t take kindly to one of their top military men being murdered. They would seek revenge. They could take it out on Tibet or even Nepal. 47 hadn’t had a problem with it until now.

Where was Diana?

After he set off the boomer, 47 was to move laterally across the mountain face to a designated outcrop of stone. There, a helicopter from Kathmandu would appear, hover above him, and lower a rope ladder. They’d be gone before authorities had time to investigate the avalanche.

Had the chopper left Kathmandu? Surely not. Diana was to give the pilot the green light after 47 had successfully placed the boomer and set off the sonic explosion.

Maybe the satellite failed. That was it. Diana wouldn’t abandon him like that. She was the only person on the planet that he almost trusted, and he had a serious problem with trust. He had confidence in only one human being, and that was himself.

His inner clock told him it was nearly a quarter after one. He was late. If he didn’t act soon, the mission would have to be aborted. Agent 47 never aborted assignments. The concept was anathema to his soul.

Once more the assassin crawled to the edge of the cliff. Nam Vo was probably a hundred fifty feet below but still in the target range.

Where was Diana?

The sound of rapid gunfire jolted him. A string of powerful kicks punctured the snow six inches from his head. 47 rolled to his side, and this time he saw them. One man was dangling on a rope at such an angle that he had full view of the ice cliff. The other guy was spotting him. The hanging man held an assault rifle, probably a QBZ-95. 47 was a sitting duck.

The assassin scrambled back to the cliff wall, but the Chinese bodyguard still had a bead on him. The man fired again; bullets dotted the rock face as 47 hit the snow and flattened his body as much as he could. There was no question—he had to get out of there.

The assault weapon’s noise would surely alert Nam Vo and his party. They would move for cover and 47 would lose his chance. There was only one thing to do. Blindly place the boomer and hope for the best.

Which is exactly what he did.

47 armed the device to start pulsing, and then he plunged it hard into the snow. The tiny beacon resembled a metal stake. How long would it take before the cliff gave way? The hitman didn’t want to stay and find out.

More gunshots.

47 froze and backed up. He pulled a Silverballer from his backpack, aimed at the suspended shooter, and fired.

A hit. But not a kill. The sun was simply too strong. It was like trying to aim into a fireball and strike a dot. Nevertheless, 47 heard the man yelp in pain. But the guy held on to the QBZ-95 and started firing again. 47 decided to go in the opposite direction from which he was supposed to climb. It was the only way to avoid getting perforated. He had no idea what the route would be like or where it would take him, but he had to move.

Then he felt a tremor.

Where was Diana?

The cliff rumbled beneath his legs.

Move! Move! Now! Now!

But the Chinese shooter blocked his way with a barrage of death.…